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It's hard for me to understand why I still write. For a long time I fell back on the old "I was born to be a writer, it's just what I do" excuse. Not that it's an excuse. It's an explanation. And it's what defined me. I could be struggling, but that's okay -- I'm a writer. Writers struggle. Writers also indulge, deny, fail, fail often, cry, get super moody at all the wrong times, feel nothing, feel everything. Being a writer was a way to explain away whatever I did or whatever I felt or whomever I hurt, including myself.

But now I don't know if I can keep relying on that excuse. Yes, excuse. I change my mind. I'm a writer, I can change my mind. It is both an explanation and an excuse.

And, I suppose, it's a lifeline. It's my lifeline. It is deeply personal and the act/art of writing has rescued me from deeply dark waters more than once. Even if it had only saved me once, I would still be in its debt. I owe it to the act/art of writing to continue writing. I can't turn my back on it when it for so long held my head above water. I just have to remember to breathe every once in awhile. Gotta do my part, too, you know?

So now I'm not sure what to do, which avenue to pursue. And that's okay. If all I ever do is bare my heart to the world wide web through an earnest mess of fog and pearls, then that should be enough. Not should -- will. I will be enough, I already am.